Deimos had crumbled into his weakest state. What remained of him barely resembled the sovereign he once was. His blood had rusted into something akin to a squid's ink, thickening toward coagulation, sluggish and wrong. The clots dragged along the narrow confines of his veins, resisting the rhythm of his failing heart, until they surged upward and burst from his mouth in a violent spray. It spilled down his lips, trailed along his jaw, and leaked from the corners of his blackened eyes as though even his sight had begun to bleed.
Each breath scraped against his throat. Each exhale carried the wet sound of something drowning from within.
The roots of his dark locks had begun to pale, strands of white threading through the black like decay eating into shadow. It spread slowly but relentlessly, devouring the rest of his hair until the darkness could no longer hold. His skin followed, drained of all warmth, until his pallor rivaled Aureus, who had never known the touch of a tan even beneath the harshest daylight.
The white marble bed beneath him was mercilessly cold. Its chill did not remain on the surface but seeped inward, threading through his flesh and settling deep into his bones. It felt invasive, like a foreign hand pressing into places it did not belong. He turned onto his side in a weak attempt to escape it, his body collapsing with none of the weightlessness he should have possessed.
He should have floated.
Instead, he felt resistance.
There was something beneath him. Something unseen.
An invisible layer pressed faintly against his back, firm enough to hold him, too subtle to be seen. Only when the blood spilled from his mouth and spread beneath him did it reveal its presence. The dark liquid pooled across that unseen surface, outlining it in a grotesque sheen.
It did not behave like blood for long.
It thinned. It stretched. Its consistency warped until it resembled venom diluted in crimson, slick and unnatural, glistening with a sickly luster.
Something gnawed at him from within.
It was not pain alone. It was hunger, rot, pressure, and heat all tangled into one unbearable sensation. His blood began to boil, bubbling beneath his skin, and the feeling built until it seemed inevitable that his body would rupture under it.
"Heron..." he muttered, the name breaking apart in his throat, caught in a wet gurgle.
His fingers twitched, then clawed at the empty air above him. His nails scraped against nothing, carving at a void that refused to yield. They began to curl, bending under strain, until the pressure forced them free. One by one, they tore from their beds.
"AAAAAUURRRGGGGGGGH!"
The scream ripped itself from him, raw and jagged. His eyes narrowed through the agony as more of the blackened fluid poured from them, mingling with what should have been tears. He tried to inhale, but his lungs fought against him. Each breath was cut short by another violent heave, another surge of corrupted blood spilling past his lips.
His skin grew paler still, beyond the softness of ivory, beyond the quiet of frost. It became something lifeless, a blankness that rivaled the first snow of winter before it had ever been touched.
A broken whimper slipped past him, small and humiliating. He sounded like a wounded mutt left to die.
Frustration followed. Then despair.
Color returned to him, but not in any way that brought life. A violent bluish violet spread beneath his skin, blooming like bruises that refused to fade. His veins stood out faintly, tracing a map of corruption beneath the surface.
His hair continued to grow, strands lengthening across the marble, but its color drained entirely. What remained was not pure white, but something duller, stripped of vitality.
Time slipped.
The darkness that had once filled the sky began to retreat. Pale light crept in, hesitant at first, then stronger, until the chamber was bathed in the luminance of day. It did nothing to comfort him.
If anything, it made everything worse.
His voice broke apart further, no longer restrained to low murmurs. It echoed now, carried by wet gurgles and strained groans that filled the space around him. He wept more of that dark fluid, retched until there was nothing left to expel, and still his body forced more out.
His heart pounded wildly, faster than a hare's frantic sprint. It swelled against the cage of his ribs, pushing, pressing, as though it sought escape.
"I was not informed you had taken to theatrics in these years, Deimos."
The voice cut through everything.
Aureus arrived with the dawn itself, stepping from the direction where the sun first rose. Light clung to him naturally, as if it belonged to his very being. Warmth radiated outward in steady waves, reaching Deimos without resistance.
The moment it touched him, his body reacted.
It absorbed the heat greedily, yet recoiled at the same time. The cold within him and the warmth from Aureus clashed violently, sending a fresh wave of nausea through him.
Aureus did not hesitate.
With a light, almost playful kick, he struck Deimos' side. The weakened god rolled over with little resistance, landing flat on his back. The motion forced more blood from his mouth, splattering across his already stained robe and streaking his face like smeared ink.
Aureus watched.
Something stirred in him then, something subtle and forbidden. It curled at the edges of his chest, unfamiliar yet intoxicating. His smile widened, stretching further than it should have, nearing the edges of his ears.
Deimos coughed again when a foot pressed down against his chest.
This time, it was not gentle.
The force behind it was deliberate, crushing. His bones, already weakened, gave way with a sickening crack. The sound echoed faintly, lost beneath his strangled gasp. His hands moved instinctively, gripping at Aureus' ankle as if it were the only solid thing left in the world.
"Aureus..." he breathed.
The name trembled, fragile and broken, carried on a voice that could no longer hold strength. Blood continued to slip from his eyes, trailing down the sides of his face.
"Pathetic," Aureus replied, his lip curling with visible disgust.
He lifted his foot only to drive it down again.
The impact forced another burst of blood from Deimos' mouth. The unseen surface beneath him rippled faintly with the force, catching the spreading liquid as it pooled wider.
Aureus exhaled slowly, the sound vibrating in his throat. His golden eyes gleamed, catching the light in a way that made them appear sharper, more dangerous.
"Their clamors rang in my ears," he began, his tone laced with bitterness. "They praised my shade, spoke of it as though it rivaled yours. They came close, so very close, to giving me your name."
"Aureus..." Deimos tried again, weaker this time.
"The wine was murky. Sour. He questioned it, of course," Aureus continued, ignoring him. "He asked about the taste, about the brew, yet never once did he suspect it had been laced with a serpent's venom."
He tilted his head, a pleased smile settling across his lips.
"Oh, but dear Deimos," he added, a quiet snicker escaping him, "you were far too drunk on your own pomposity to notice."
His gaze lowered, fixing on the ruined figure beneath him.
For a moment, satisfaction lingered.
Then it vanished.
The shift was abrupt. The light in his eyes dimmed, and something darker took its place. Memories surfaced without invitation, threading through his thoughts, souring everything they touched.
The sun, in that moment, was no longer radiant.
It was diminished. Shadowed by something unseen.
Still, a weapon formed in his grasp. Light gathered, condensed, sharpened until it became a blade. It resembled a fragment torn from the very rays of a star, brilliant and merciless.
"Fallen one," Aureus said quietly, "I shall purify your blackened heart."
Deimos shook his head, though the movement was barely perceptible. His strength had long since abandoned him. Even his refusal felt distant, dulled by exhaustion.
"Aureus..." he repeated.
Softer now.
A plea.
But Aureus did not hear it as one.
To him, it sounded like submission. Like surrender.
And his pride answered eagerly.
He straightened slightly, his posture shifting into something regal, victorious. Like a general standing over a conquered enemy. He lowered the blade, bringing its radiant tip close to Deimos' throat, close enough that the light itself seemed to burn.
"Do not call upon my conscience," he said, his voice low and cutting. "You were born to be darkness. No greater than I."
He leaned in, studying his brother's ruined face.
"And yet, they loved you."
The words lingered, heavy with something unspoken.
The blade moved.
It grazed skin.
A thin line formed, and from it oozed black ichor, thick and slow.
"You are hideous, Deimos," Aureus continued. "Look at what you have become. This form suits you. A broken shade."
Deimos' eyes rolled faintly, unfocused. More of the dark substance seeped from him, spreading across the unseen surface. His body no longer held its structure fully. It sagged, softened, as though it were dissolving into something less than flesh.
Something less than form.
Aureus watched in silence.
Then, without ceremony, he drove the blade downward.
It pierced where the core had shifted within Deimos' body. There was resistance for only a moment before it gave way.
Aureus stepped back.
Each step left a faint trail of black in its wake.
The blade shattered in his hand soon after, breaking into fragments that scattered briefly before unraveling into threads of light. They curled back toward him, reabsorbed as though they had never left.
"For a transgression I cannot forget," he said, his tone steady once more, "not even with your death, I will claim what was yours."
His lips pressed into a thin line.
"Your domain. And whatever your heart once held."
He looked down one final time.
"And no one will speak your name again."